Well Oiled Machine

I long to be steel.
Made of cranks and cogs.
Bolts and gears.
Strong to the core.
Working in perfect sync.
Never shutting down, always moving, constant.

I'm faulty, a condemned machine.
Recalled, like a car seat, kitchen appliance, or plastic toy filled with lead.
Contradictorily toxic to others.

I envy the machine.
It continues to work,
even when its raining, if its a monday, or if its unloved.
It doesn't bend, it doesn't cry, it doesn't feel.
I envy the machine.